


If the light's good

by Superstition_hockey



Series: Depth on the Bench [13]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Brunch, Gen, Hockey Wives, Russian/Ukraine Angst, breakup angst, day in the life, metamours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 14:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11785275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey
Summary: A while ago someone on Tumblr requested a day in the life of Sveta.





	If the light's good

**Author's Note:**

> I put 0.000001 effort into researching Russian political structures (and that's a generous estimate) so you know. Also, I have no idea who the actual Russian consul in Quebec is, but I doubt his name is the Russian equivalent of John Smith, so. Like always I don't ever pick names based on any real people, just on combos of common first and last names, this is a work of fiction, etc. etc. etc. 
> 
>  
> 
> This takes place in the summer between Breakway and the next main installment.

Marina’s alarm goes off at six and she’s out of the house and pulling into the gym’s parking lot by six thirty.  There’s an entire gym room in Luc’s house, but she almost never uses it.  Even now, in the summer when he’s gone, and there’s no one here but her and Yasha, she prefers her usual gym.  She’s showered and changing back into street clothes when she gets a text from Em, _hey wanna do lunch? I want one of those salads from that place on Rue Couillard._

She texts an affirmative, gets back a _12:00?_

_Make it 12:30_

She has plans at 12:00.  She always has plans at 12:00.  

She stops by her office instead of going home. It’s close to where Em wants to get to lunch, and she didn’t go by yesterday. The office space is tiny, sharing a 2nd floor above a dentist office with a massage therapist and a tiny start-up magazine. She doesn’t paint here, obviously. Doesn’t even really use it for business regarding her painting.  She uses it for work with the IUSW and local Quebec organizations of a similar nature. For Instagram and modeling things.  For all things Svetlana Volkov™.

She spends three hours going through work emails, shifting through packages of sponsored products, and staging the perfect Instagram photo of herself artfully sitting in a window, staring out at old Quebec City, wearing Tom Ford lipstick that had come in the mail, holding a teacup with the tag of the tea bag perfectly catching the light.  

She posts the picture, then glances at the clock. 11:53.

She goes into the bathroom. Splashes cold water on her hands.  Takes five deep breaths.  Makes herself a cup of real tea she’s actually going to drink.  

 

At 12:00 exactly she presses dial for the contact saved in her phone as “lunch.” It’s the same number she dials every day.  She used to have to dial the main line. Years and years ago, she used to have to sit and listen to the phone tree. For the first year, she only ever spoke to interns when she finally got transferred to a real person.  Now. Well, she’s been doing this a long time.  

“Hello, Marina,” the Russian Consul to Quebec says after picking up after the first ring.  “Right on time as usual.”

“Hello,” Marina says in Russian, the words falling automatically from her mouth, as route as any prayer, “My name is Marina Melnyk.  I’m calling to express my concern about Russian state prisoner 1309489, Sergei Melnyk, a Ukrainian citizen.  His imprisonment is a human rights violation. I’m calling to demand that the Justice Minister review his case and release him.”

On the other side of the line Ivan Kuznetsov sighs.  “Marina, my dear. You know there is only so much I can do and only so many favors I can exchange. Moving him out of Siberia cost me my last one.”

Her knuckles are white around the tea cup.  “So put me in contact with someone who can.”

“Masha.” Another long sigh. “Some things are beyond my scope. Sometimes we have to accept the world as it is.”

“Maybe. But not for this. I can’t. Not for my brother.” She pauses, has to swallow a few times before she can force the words from her throat, but she's been in this game too long to not know the value of appearing _grateful_. “Thank you, Vanya. Until tomorrow.” Then she hangs up.  

She’s got a whole 10 minutes free to cry and touch up her eye makeup before she’s supposed to meet for lunch.  

 

She and Em order salads and sit on the patio in the sun.  Out of the corner of her eye she notices two people who take pictures of them.  She wishes she had Mako, sitting there in her purse. She wishes she’d had Mako earlier in her office, on the phone. It’s unfair that when you break up with a man you have to break up with his dog as well. But. Many things are unfair.

Em bites her lip. “Are you going to be on Hockey Wives with me again this season?”  She asks in English because French still doesn’t come easily to her, although Marina knows she’s been practicing with Tess.

“Em…” she begins. “You know I’m not…”  

“It was so much fun last season, and you were so funny.”

“I can’t…. I’m not a WAG any more.”

Em squeezes her hand.  “I’d miss you.”

“We can be friends, still, you know, without me planning Skates and Plates and organizing weekly brunch dates. We can still do _this._ ”

“That’s bullshit. Please don't go anywhere.”  Em bites her lip and then finally says, softly, quiet enough that nobody at a neighboring table could hear if they tried. “I’ve done this four times, Sveta. Four new teams, four new cities, four new groups of girls. Four new book clubs, four new socially bland and uncontroversial charities I’m supposed to smile and pose for, four different parent-teacher associations. And this is…” She looks like she’s about to cry. “This is first book club I’ve ever been in where I actually read the fucking books, not just…. I don’t know. I just… And Tess...Tess is. She’s….she’s got that interview at Laval, you can’t… None of us want you to leave.”

Honestly it would hurt. To do the same work she did last year, with no understanding behind it that she was actually a _part_ of it, not actually part of the life of a person she'd fallen in love with despite herself. But. But the last season’s episode of Hockey Wives had shown her as a helping, maternal figure to Nikolai Budnikov.  A key element to Russia’s best rookie’s smooth transition. In reality, her relationship with Kolya is much more complicated, but despite all that, he wasn’t a bad kid, when you got to know him. They’d gotten over their differences, their bickering these days mostly just for show or amusement.  And Yasha. So sweet. His blond curls and dimples remind her so much of the boy who used to live across the street when she was a little girl. She would always be happy to help him, with or without a camera involved. But that doesn’t mean that there’s not some advantage to be gained by public support of Kolya. By being the woman that put a samovar in Luc Chantal’s kitchen, and hung Valeri Kharlamov’s jersey on his wall. A tiny bit more leverage in the PR game. One more potential favor. One more chance. One more phone call.

“Yes” she says, smiling at Em, and squeezing her hand back, “Okay, if it’s...if Luc doesn’t mind. He might.. It’ll be.”  Awkward. It will be awkward as hell, is what it’ll be. But if there’s anything she can trust about Luc Chantal, it’s his ability to blithely bulldoze his way through anything with an easy open smile and good intentions. “I don’t know how that will work out, but if he doesn’t mind, I’ll do it.”

 

After lunch, she walks with Emma arm in arm back to her car.  “Text me tomorrow,” Em says, “if you’re going to hot yoga again, I’ll come with.”

 

“Of course.”

  


*******

  
  


Back home, she makes more tea - for her and Yasha.  Takes a cup out to him in the garden while he’s grafting plum trees, the tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth as he labels a card for each one. He kisses her cheek.  

She gets her sun hat from the green house, her lawn chair. The easel from her room, and also a sketch pad.  Sits in the shade under the big maple tree and tries to paint. But an hour later, when her phone buzzes, she’s done nothing but make a dozen quick sketches of chickens.

The text is from an unknown number, American international code.   _Hey_ it reads, _this is Crash._

She’s still staring at the text when it’s followed by _Beatriz Teixeira_

 _I know_ she finally answers

_Cool. Do you have snapchat?_

She can’t describe exactly the emotional rolling in her chest but she sends her username and then _thats my private snapchat. Please *keep* it private_

_Duh_

And a few minutes later the little notification pops up that Crashthisbrah has added her as a friend.  30 seconds later another notification.

She opens the snap and.

 

There is her painting.  Not the one Luc bought from her and sent to California.   _Linnet in the rain._ It’s in the MOMA right now, and apparently so is Crash.  Her hands are sweating around the phone.

 _Nice work dude_ the snap caption reads and she has to smile a little.

She takes a snap of her empty canvas in the garden _wish I was as productive right now._ Sends it before she can second guess herself.

The snap in response is a Crash’s hand, thumb and pinky extended, other fingers folded down. _Art is like the ocean dude, it comes and goes as it pleases. Don’t stress, it’ll come_

Before she can respond to that Crash sends something else. A screenshot of an announcement of an Instagram event in LA in three weeks from now that she’d agree to attend.   _Are you going to be there?_

_Unfortunately_

_Come to Santa Cruz afterwards and I’ll teach you how to surf. You can stay at the house_

_Why_

The answering picture is a selfie, Crash in the middle of a shrug. _To be honest dude I’m more of a why not kinda person but if you need a reason I can promise good light in a couple of places you’d probably like to paint._

 

Marina puts down the phone. Spends 30 minutes mixing different shades of purple. Finally picks up her phone again. Takes a snap of the first brush stroke against the canvas. _Well. If the lights good._

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come find me at superstitionhockey on tumblr :) :) :)


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